


when we have no dark things

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Season/Series 10, mention of vague self-harm thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels better, when he has something in his hands.</p><p>Don't really matter what, a screwdriver, a dishtowel, a halfway dried-out pen. Just something Dean can keep in his hands for a while, something to twiddle between thumb and forefinger while he looks through security camera footage for a case, or sorts books on black magic back in the shelves. He'll grab at anything in sight, an empty USB-stick, a bit of torn out paper. The pieces of trash of their everyday lives, that sometimes just lay around. Useless maybe, and forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when we have no dark things

**Author's Note:**

> for deathswaywardson on tumblr :3

 

 

 

 

**when we have no dark things**

 

_when we have no dark things_

 

_crawl black tar through hall and_

_hall then run_

_down winding road spun_

_round again at end_

_and_

 

_someone's getting hurt while someone else is_

_laughing_

 

 

 

 

It feels better, when he has something in his hands.

 

Don't really matter what, a screwdriver, a dishtowel, a halfway dried-out pen. Just something Dean can keep in his hands for a while, something to twiddle between thumb and forefinger while he looks through security camera footage for a case, or sorts books on black magic back into the shelves. He'll grab at anything in sight, an empty USB-stick, a bit of torn out paper. The pieces of trash of their everyday lives, that sometimes just lay around. Useless maybe, and forgotten.

 

He thinks he's even read it in one of those self-help magazines, how keeping things in your hands can help with anxiety. Can tone down the insane urge to scratch all the skin and flesh off your bones.

 

At first, when he'd noticed what he's been doing – keeping things in his hands and running his fingertips over the surface, clutching them so tight at times that they'd left imprints in his skin – he'd tried to make himself stop. But how do you make yourself – he _needs_ to touch things, to hold them and use them, in order to make it through the day as a human being. To stay alive, once more.

 

Dean's stayed cautious for a while, but it doesn't seem to make it worse. The yearning. The yearning for bone and teeth in his hand instead of a dirt-smudged eraser, or a fork with rounded edges.

 

These things, they don't make him angry.

 

He hasn't had the urge to stick a fork into anyone's eyes, or scratch it down his arm and lay the veins open like intricate red rivers.

 

But if it's not happening. Then that just means it's not happening yet.

 

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Sam has probably noticed. Hell, he probably noticed before Dean did.

 

That's who Sam is, someone who pays attention to detail, to nuances. Who processes things in seconds and knows what they mean, how they're connected.

 

He hasn't said anything though. Maybe he, too, has come to the conclusion that this is a good rather than a bad thing. Or a thing that is neither. Maybe he feels like pressuring Dean about anything right now would be a bad move.

 

Dean does feel like having something in his hand keeps him distracted and therefore makes him feel better. Or, he thinks he feels better. He has no idea what feeling good is actually like anymore.

 

There are also moments when he has to let it _go_.

 

 

 

 

It goes like this –

 

They are sitting at the library tables, he was just talking with Sam. Or, Sam was talking, and he was listening. Something or other he had found out about that Grand Coven thing the gross kids-eating witch was going on about. And this is important, is probably the next bit storm brewing on the horizon waiting to lay it all to waste. Dean was listening, he was.

 

He's been rolling a wooden pencil back and forth over his palm with his fingertips. The wood feels different against his skin than the black plastics of the pens, the cheap metal of the cutlery. It warms easier, has less weight. Soon, he's forgotten it's there at all. He's forgotten _he_ is there at all, or anyone else.

 

It's. So peaceful. Less like empty and suffocating, just. _Lighter_.

 

Then, it's like a jolt goes through him. He breathes, he's there again. It was maybe a second, maybe two.

 

His hand has stopped, his fingers have stopped. The pencil has stopped.

 

Dean fights the urge to let the thing just drop, with a clatter, down on the table. There is no paper, no files, no research on his side, it's all over there where his brother sits. It would make a lot of noise, to let it fall down now.

 

 

He curls his fingers around it. Fights the urge to grip just that much tighter and _break_.

 

 

 

Dean looks up, too late, and Sam has stopped mid-sentence, is staring at him in concern.

 

Dean grimaces, guilt churning acidly and burning up his throat, “Sorry”. He puts the pencil down, runs a hand across the tabletop, forces it to stay there. Open and empty.

 

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Dean's face is still pretty bruised up, his ribs still hating him for every time he bends or turns. Sam has yet to ask him, if there'd been anything else useful about what Cain said to him. Has yet to ask him, what made Dean look the way he did.

 

Cas is different in his approach to talk to Dean, but he seems no less careful for it.

 

He texts more than he calls. Or maybe Dean just thumbs through his texts too often, and that's why it seems that way to him.

 

Cas doesn't tell him where the blade is and Dean doesn't ask.

 

Now, Dean was actually in the process of cutting vegetables when Cas called. It got clear pretty quickly that what Cas called to talk about was neither of a life-threatening, nor a time-sensitive matter, and so Dean continued fighting with Sam's stupid organic carrots, phone pressed between cheek and shoulder.

 

After two minutes, it kind of vaguely occurs to him he could've just put it on speaker. But he didn't, and, at least to himself, he can admit that this. Is kind of nice. Cas' voice feels closer to Dean like this. Cas feels closer to Dean like this.

 

Cas hasn't told Dean where he is, but from his bitchin' about the road and the noise and the _stupid people_ , it sounds like somewhere busy, dusty, and with a lot of trucks.

 

And Dean was quiet, sometimes actually smiling at something Cas said, so he _has_ to have been listening. Only, at some point he becomes aware of Cas saying Dean's name, sounding like he's already said it several times.

 

Dean straightens and coughs, “Sorry man, what?”

 

There is a long silence.

 

“ _Sam tells me you somehow got another set of keys made for your car.”_

 

Dean sighs and pauses momentarily.

 

“He told you, huh. And?”

 

“ _Why did you do it?”_ Good old straight-forward Cas. _“So far one set of keys seems to have sufficed for both of you.”_

 

There is worry under the calm though, worry that might lead to full blown alarm if Dean says something wrong now. He really has to stop making the people he loves worry. It won't do. There's not much time left, he can't – but this, there is nothing wrong to say, this will be easy. There is nothing wrong.

 

He is, if not good, perfectly OK after all.

 

Dean gets back to chopping carrots, even though he now notices his slices are getting uneven. He has to be more careful.

 

“Yeah, it's just, you know really inconvenient when I'm not here and he needs the car or something. I wouldn't know he'd wanna drive somewhere and... so he wouldn't have to wait for me to come back, y'know?”

 

There is another silence, the rushing of the road through the tinny speakers. And another sound, like a cough, or a swallow.

 

“ _And why would you be away, Dean?”_

 

Dean's almost done with the carrots. Cas' voice is so quiet now, he can barely hear him.

 

“Ah, I dunno I could be – ” he trails off, confused at finding he doesn't know the answer, and it's then that a sharp pain zaps through the fingers of his left hand.

 

He stares, shocked, at the cuts in the skin. He's nicked three of his fingers with the knife, the blood flowing red and fast.

 

 

“ _De-”_

 

The phone slips free from his shoulder and falls to the floor with a clatter, ending the call.

 

 

>

 

 

 

Having something in his hands is something good. It doesn't help with the shakes at all.

 

 

It doesn't help with the lack of control, with the fear of the lack of control. Doesn't help with the _breaking_. With the tapes over three of his fingers. Holding the blood inside.

 

But Dean feels less – adrift. More useful.

 

His dreams are nothing now. Every morning he wakes, he consciously searches his mind for them. But there is nothing, and just nothing. Like something is holding its breath.

 

 

>

 

 

 

He burns the tips of his fingers now sometimes, when he cooks. He doesn't let that stop him.

 

 

 

He wipes down the counters, maybe one or two times too often. But it's clean, and shining. It's nice. He throws out some more trash they don't need, stocks up on medical supplies. He avoids the gun range. They probably have enough ammunition to last – some long time, he guesses.

 

Dean goes and puts everything they've put off on washing in the machine, goes through the closet and sorts out some bedding with a brighter color. All the books and the research are out of his room now. The dust too. It's orderly, a little empty, maybe.

 

Changing the sheets, he makes sure that all the edges are tucked in nice and clear. He smoothes his hands down over it. It's cool and soft like fresh snow.

 

 

 

When it's all done and he looks down on it, he feels weirdly sad.

 

Mom's picture has fallen flat on its back at some point. Dean hasn't yet leaned it back up against the lamp. Mom is looking up, now. It must be better than looking at Dean.

 

>

 

 

 

 

Everything is clean, and clear and brighter now.

 

 

 

When Sam comes back, he gets a weird look on his face and says the place looks as lifeless as a grave. Dean laughs it off, but the sound sends shivers down his spine. He reminds himself that this isn't a cave, and it's not a cathedral. His voice has no echo here.

 

He looks down on the list he's been writing. It's a grocery list. Dean's been writing with a black plastic pen, on white paper. But the last few words, he can barely read what it was.

 

 

 

Black on white. He stares at the pen.

 

 

He holds it in his hand and he doesn't feel a thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
